all according to plan
by Dorminchu
Summary: Shortly after tearing up the dance floor, Ryo and Akira depart for home; it's a school night, after all.


a/n: Fashionably late to the party, but what else is new? After accidentally spoiling Ryo's identity for myself, I nonetheless enjoy the friendship between the main duo and extensive action sequences, so here's a drabble about the ending to Episode 1. Might be taking some creative liberties with the characterization.

* * *

Eventually, Amon stops tearing apart the other demons long enough to realize there are no targets left to eviscerate. The massive black shape sways in the firelight and flashing multi-colored lights, groaning, before it crumples to the saturated floor, shrinking upon itself. As if to add insult to injury, the sprinkler goes off, and those few drug-addled sinners who aren't fortunate enough to be dead yet begin vocalizing their distress at the new sensation.

_"Akira!"_ Ryo has to yell to make himself heard over the clamor. Is he even conscious? Wonderful. On his elbows, Ryo strains to lift himself even an inch from the floor, sandwiched under debris. It's a frustrating predicament, but at the very least he'll be able to go back to school tomorrow in adequate condition. In the back of his mind he considers a suitable excuse for his bruises and the bloodstains—all over his best jacket, too—that will come later. There are more important matters to attend to:

"Akira! Can you hear me?"

The dying club members continue to writhe about in their own blood and refuse while Ryo redoubles his efforts to get free; Akira's probably not going to share the same level of optimism about this turn of events, if he even comprehends what just happened. There's only one way to be sure, and even in the worst outcome it's nothing Ryo won't be able to handle.

The real problem is this damn rubble weighing him down. In a minute Ryo manages to get his upper body free—the crushing weight comes down on his legs, and would surely cripple him if not for sheer luck. Cursing his self-imposed limitations, Ryo tears his attention back to the only other person who matters.

It's difficult to tell what Akira's doing—sitting up, clutching his head, and his profile is a bit bulkier already—but enough speculation; time to find out if he's dealing with Amon or his dear schoolmate.

"Akira?"

Akira isn't responding. Ryo can tell by the uneven rhythm of his chest that he might be hyperventilating, perhaps taking in the scent of fresh blood or piss or sweat as the club lights wash over the carnage in hues of pink-blue-yellow-white. His eyes widen comically and he spins around, tripping over one of his recent victims. Ryo hears him shout something like "Oh FUCK—" and represses the need to groan; the old Akira still exists in a latent sense, like acknowledging one's reflection. But then Akira shudders, no longer struggling for composure.

"R-Ryo?" he calls. His voice is deeper.

"Over _here_," Ryo snaps. "Help me out!"

Akira shambles over to him in a daze, shirtless, his flesh mottled with blood. His eyes gleam carmine under the lights, and when he meets Ryo's gaze there is the same conviction he'd brandished on the dance floor.

"Holy shit. Did—did I do all that?"

"You did a _great_ job," Ryo grunts, trying and failing to make any progress, "but can we talk about this later?"

"Oh shit—sorry, Ryo!"

Akira effortlessly hefts the broken wood and Ryo quickly drags himself away in time to watch the other boy let it drop with a heavy thud that rises above the din of those still dying, transfixed by his own power. The scars remain like twin streaks down his temple. Ryo does his best not to stare.

Akira can't stop looking around, devoid of the trauma any reasonable mortal should be experiencing; he looks for all the world like a child in a toy store. "Shit. Are those the de—?"

"_Yes!_ Can we please—" With a sharp insistence in his tone, Ryo wraps his arm over the other boy's shoulder, feigning weakness—he seems bulkier than before, but Akira goes with the momentum, perhaps still trying to process what he's just wrought. "Be careful, there's a lot of blood." It's a struggle to keep the excitement from bubbling over; then again, Ryo isn't used to this kind of exhilaration.

They don't talk about it until they're both in the car, and Akira is bleeding all over the expensive leather, but it hardly matters. The sounds from the club still ring in Ryo's ears, so he leaves the radio off, buzzing with adrenaline that, in turn, commands his roadside manner. The silence is dangerously tense, and it's a while before Akira finally breaks it:

"Ryo, what the fuck happened back there?"

"You backed me up. I'd have been in a hell of a situation without you." He catches sight of Akira scowling in the rear-view mirror, but he doesn't demand further elaboration. Ryo wonders if he'll even remember this in the morning. All in good time. They've got class tomorrow, anyway.


End file.
